Alphabet
by The Witch of the Souls
Summary: Twenty-six themed one-shots surrounding Germany's and Canada's relationship over time and their moments.
1. A

**Hey, I'm back (and alive). Had finally begun to rework and rehash the 'Alphabet' series, which are a string of oneshots that are somehow linked together that focuses on Germany and Canada. There's no order on how they'll appear time-wise, so relationship status will vary between these two. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia and franchise and I don't have no claim to the "Jeepers, Creepers" song.**

**Rated T: shenanigans, use of alcohol and drunks, lack of clothes, partial gender-bending (Fem!Canada), profanity, and some OOC-ness (because alcohol does that!), slight hint of cross-dressing, awkward comfort  
**

**Extra: Just done some fixes, added things, and taken in advice. Hopefully it had smoothed out.**

**A**ffection

When Ludwig felt the mattress dipped as someone shuffled toward him around three in the morning, he asked the most important question at that point, "Matthew… where's your pants?"

"...Who?"

"You."

"Not Matthew. Maybe. God, I don't kno' anymore... People callin' 'Matthew' and 'Madeleine' and 'America' and 'Alfred'... I like do 'Birdie,' it's really nice. You kno' wha'? I'm gonna pretend I'm Italy." There was stifled laughter, a snort, and then a brief pause. "_Veeeee._"

He turned over and faced his bedmate, who sat on the edge the bed and was struggling with the last few buttons of her dress shirt. "Italy can't swear in several languages when he smacks against doors. I severely doubt he even knows what 'fuddle duddle' even means." He deadpanned.

"No humor, eh?" Matthew snorted and gave a triumphant 'Ha!' with the final button undone; she leaned back, hands bracing her, and head gently swaying to the tuneless song she was humming. "Trudeau had his moments."

"And your pants?"

"Pants? They're new, so no P.M. action. Oh, wait…Floor, I think. Hold on." She huffed; violet eyes lazily scanned the room. The shirt slipped off her right shoulder, he spied a partial view of her bare back and the faded remains of burn scars over the heart.

"I see… my bra. God, strapless just kills the chest. Pants? Nope. Not in here. The hallway? Most likely downstairs. I just 'member they're on the floor somewhere in this place, fo' sure. "

This time she flipped onto the bed, head nestled near his stomach, and arms stretched out. She traced the scars, absentmindedly. "I can feel your eyes, . Seriously." She turned halfway and said. "It's total creeper status..." Matthew then broke out a silly grin. "_Jeepers, creepers. Where'd ya get those peepers? Jeepers, creepers. Where'd ya get those eyes? __… _Song matches you quite well, you perv~_"_

Taken back, he sat up, "_I'm not a pervert!_"

"Of course not!" Matthew snickered, smile wide. "You're a creeper!"

"Matthew…"

"Ludwig…"

He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes (or his mortification) off with his right hand. Ludwig stared down at her and muttered a warning, "I could kick you out…"

"Fine," she flipped over and pushed her legs onto the bed. Matthew lay next to him on her belly, an arm propped up to support her head as the other was folded. She was pouting. "Killjoy, but I'll still answer."

"He gave me that. America, I mean. A long time ago. Not to mention that people were pissed about the capital." Her eyes where unfocused and her lips were curled up in a not-smile laced with bitterness and the past. She murmured, "Just one more similarity between us..."

Matthew has a quiet nature and preferred to keep to herself, the exact opposite of Feliciano. It was odd seeing her like this, so _open_. But the moment passed, violet eye refocused, she grinned at him, scars and memories pushed aside, and said, "Feli was right. You look so much cuter without the hair-gel~"

A little red, a bit horrified -What the hell does Canada and Italy talk about? And why his appearance! -and wholly not amused, Matthew laughed loudly at his embarrassment as Ludwig tugged on her forearm and pulled her towards him, "Come here."

Before France colonized the Americas, she vaguely remembered her early childhood in the tundra, fragments of sights and sounds and an unbelievable _coldness_ that seeped into the bones. She grew to appreciate the warmth from decent weather and body heat, and without hesitation she crawled over, shuffled under the blankets, curled up, and sighed happily at the close contact. It was just as he expected, he could smell alcohol.

There are several types of drunks, and Matthew fell under the categories of talkative and affectionate; the straightforward one that alternates between babbling and spacing out with little concern of what was said and people's personal space (But nobody would be sober at that point to be embarrassed or concerned or anything else for that matter).

Using the German's chest as a muffler, she griped his tank top; her laughter trailed to chuckles, and then to snickers. "_Oh my God!_ Your face! So funny!" The snickers died off as she settled. "This is nice… cuddling… better than drinking… with Al... and Gil… and everyone else." Matthew trailed off, the feelings of tiredness, contentment, and warmth combined with the copious amount of liquor was lulling her to a lethargic state.

A comfortable silence was between them. Her hand slacken its grip and remained its place on Ludwig's side, and was about to drift off with her forehead resting on his collarbone.

"Matthew."

"Hmm," came her sleepy reply.

"Who's Madeleine?"

He felt than saw the shrug of her shoulders, she sighed tiredly. "It's a kid's show 'bout a little French girl." She chuckled and smiled wanly. "Some were singin' the theme song. Al' joked that I should change my name. Arthur and Francis actually agreed. Hosers... Something about appropriate gender and French culture? Can't tell, both of them started a bar fight after that."

The German scoffed. Even in agreement, England and France would trade blows for mere reasoning. And if Prussia managed to get entangled with this, Ludwig won't bail him out until after breakfast because some things are meant to be tackled with a full stomach. Especially if Gilbert regales just how did he and everyone else (Bad Touch Trio, indeed.) end up with naked and arrested.

She dug into him, her soft voice stifled by the tank top, she was muttering something about men and women and duty, but he managed to catch snippets, "But it's my name. Mine. Not theirs. Don't need to pretend, but it's _mine_."

There was a sniffle and he awkwardly patted her back. Feliciano was better at comforting, the Italian knew just what and what not to say and do. But he wasn't here, he was somewhere with Romano and Spain. Ludwig then switched to rubbing, small, gentle circles because he remembered his friend doing that to others.

"That feels nice…"

"Good. We should go to bed now. It will be busy later."

"Yeah, good idea…"

She drifted off eventually, breathing evened, limbs slack, and still pressed against him. He stopped rubbing. Her skin was colder than normal and her hair felt damp and smelled oddly like vanilla. Matthew somehow managed to shower before crashing here. He sighed and settled to get some sleep.

Canada's birthday party dragged out for far too long.

**0.o.0.o.0.o.0.o.0**

When Alfred drinks, he dreams the weirdest things. In this case, his break-dancing burgers were in fierce competition against Russia's high-jumping sunflowers and France's twirling ballet troupe of roses. England and his high-society scones -complete with monocles, mustaches, and top-hats -were the judges. The Brit stood stone-faced in front of all the competitors with that god-awful tweed suit and the winner's name on the card. He opened his mouth and announced, "_Get up, you blasted twit!_"

Alfred yelped when Arthur ripped the blanket from his body. The American turned and groaned into the couch, facing away from the island nation's ire. He was so close. _So close! _His victory and delicious burgers were cruelly snatched from him.

"Go away," his words muffled by the cushion. His mouth and throat parched and head was pounding to the horrendous beat of a drummer newbie, or worse, a kid smacking keys on a piano. Actually, he could hear the distant laughter of 'Kolkolkol' and 'Honhonhon' mocking him. "Fuck… I'm hangover."

"It's 'I have a hangover,' and I don't care." Arthur was unsympathetic to his former colony. "What the hell you and Matthew were thinking challenging _Denmark_ to a beer contest? Out of the people there, you two take on the drunkard of the North!"

"Don't go that hard on the brat," Gilbert interrupted, and then cackled. "Not his fault that he's a damn light weight."

They were both assholes, Alfred groaned.

"Not everyone can guzzle three barrels of hard stuff in one go." Alfred tried to sit up, failed, and rolled onto his side facing the couch cushions, again. There was too much noise, too much head pounding, and too much everything else. All he wanted to do was crawl back into bed, cocoon himself into the blankets, and either get better eventually or die a semi-dignified way, but burying his head into Germany's leather couch would have to do at the moment.

The Prussian snorted, "Looks like your Nordic genes diluted over time."

"Nordic? Bah! This idiot claims to be one hundred percent all-American blood. Now get up before I open the window." England drawled as he eyed the sunlight peaking out the closed curtains.

Correction; they were _major_ assholes with bad livers and sadistic to boot.

"… I hope your livers implode at the next drink."

Gilbert enjoyed the moment. It was far too entertaining to watch Arthur's bad mood snipe at people, especially at America. Alas, the day must continue and there was work to be done. "Quit bitchin' and go eat. Birdie made pancakes."

Alfred faced his early tormentors and squinted at the albino. "Holy shit! Mattie's _up_?"

"Yes! She made breakfast and is currently moping on the table." Arthur snapped back.

"Fine…" Alfred staggered to his feet and made his way to the kitchen table. Yep, Canada's pancakes were that damn worth it.

True to the Brit's word, there lied Matthew Williams, face down with arms folded beneath her as a cushion. Germany sat next to her eating breakfast as he tried to convince her to eat the untouched plate of pancakes in front of the comatose-like Canadian.

"We'll look for them later. Just eat a something and you'll feel better." The German lifted a forkful of salami to his mouth.

"Expensive." She muttered. "Expensive and brand new."

Alfred sat down and asked his neighbor, "Dude… where's your pants?"

With no response from Matthew, he eyed her untouched stack of pancakes, and then asked, "Are you goin' ta eat that?" No answer. "Just so we're clear... I'm going to take that as a 'yes.'" He swiped the pancakes much to Ludwig's annoyance. Alfred shrugged. "I asked and warned. I'm not to blame here." He moaned when the first bite of syrup covered fluffy goodness hit his tongue. "Ughh… so good."

"Oi, Birdie! I found them in the garage!" Gilbert tossed the missing pants and Matthew caught them without getting up. She huffed on the table and pushed herself up.

She proceeded to steal a couple slices of salami from Ludwig's plate by fork stabbing. "Hey, I'm hungry and Al stole my food."

"So you steal mine?"

"All's fair in hunger."

"No truer words have ever been spoken in the morning~" Alfred grinned, and then winced.

"Serves you right, you ass." Matthew chewed and commented to Ludwig, "You're right. Schlackwurst is good."

"I know." He took a bite of pancakes.

Rolling her eyes, Matthew pushed herself to her feet and started to the kitchen. She called out, "I'm making more! Who wants some?!"

"Hell yeah!"

"Don't make a mess."

Smiling, far too happily and cheery than normal, she began to sing a certain song as went to the kitchen. The lyrics trailed loudly for them to hear.

"_Jeepers, creepers... Where'd you get those peepers?"_

They both choked on their breakfast for vastly different reasons. Ludwig was flushed with embarrassment as Alfred was white with shock.

"Mattie! Not cool, man! _Not cool!_"

**Yep, Mattie's definitely more open with alcohol. A lot of alcohol in the system.**

**How did Matthew get up with a wicked hangover to cook? Mainly out of habit and people hounding her door no matter the time or her mood to get deliciousness. Why moping over pants? Because they were damn well expensive and were just worn once XD**

**Why the name 'Matthew' even though Canada is female because of early gender confusion by France (He found out but Matthew wouldn't respond to any other name by that point.) and in male-dominated society, she found it easier to masquerade as a male than a lady. Usually.  
**

**Hope you enjoyed! Please review because that's the only I'll know what's good, bad, and mush.**

**~Witch of the Souls**


	2. B

**FINALLY! After several weeks of summer class Bio + L, time to update! Should totally be doing labs, but I've put this off for far too long and wanted to do something about the Great War. So, here it is!**

**Rated: T**

**Warnings: Violence, Partial Gender-bending (Fem!Canada), World War, historical inaccuracies smoking, some OOC-ness and corniness, and **_**very**_** slight Inglorious Bastards reference, and grammar mistakes.**

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own Hetalia: Axis Powers. That genius belongs to its creator.**

**B**eyond

Smoke curled from the cigarette and dissipated into the cold, winter sky. Matthew watched the soldiers –British, Canadian, German, it didn't matter at this point –kicked the football over the muddy snow of No Man's Land and trade smokes, food, makeshift souvenirs , and among other things with an easy sort of camaraderie.

It's amazing what Christmas can do, especially to soldiers doing their goddamn best to blast the other side dead in this godforsaken hell hole.

"Indeed, it is." Germany's voice carried over and the man sat next to her. His face flushed from the winter air and brief skirmish against England and his boys. She was staring at him, and he shrugged. "Your face said it all."

"Is that so?" She exhaled another puff of smoke. Half her attention on the celebrators and the other half on her new companion, people tend to overlook and pass the Canadian. Being able to slip under people's -humans, nations, and others -radar was too valuable of a skill, especially now, to lose. Unfortunate side effects be damned. "Since when you could find me so easily?"

"Practice," he deadpanned.

Canada gave a short bark of laughter at that response. That savage part of her –the one Matthew boxed and kept it tightly under wraps –was pleased seeing the fading bruising on his face. Spotted purple, green, and yellow on the cheekbone and on the side of his nose from where she bashed his face in with the butt of her rifle before he recovered his footing and slid a knife between her ribs and twisted –Matthew still feels phantom pains, deep and sharp, and wondered if she was bleeding through her uniform. Quick thinking can't save you, she thought when she inhaled the mustard gas, too slow with the make-shift mask of mud, cloth, and urine. Quick thinking kept you alive a bit longer.

Practice, indeed.

She took another drag, and then offered the fag. Germany inhaled the warmth, scowled a bit, and exhaled. "It tastes like shit."

She cracked a small smile and shrugged and plucked it from his hands, "You take what you can." She spied on a standing British soldier –Calder, she thought –giving a haircut to a German, back turned and on his knees for easier access.

Matthew then asked, "So what's the score now?"

"Between us? It's…" Ludwig silently counted, first the thumb, and then the rest of the fingers followed. She knew that he knew the exact kill score with _each_ nation he encountered in this on-going war, but she patiently waited for his answer. "Five to six. I'm ahead by one."

It was right there –through the tiredness, proud Black Cross, and sharp angles of his thin face –she saw his age in their morbid count. Germany may be old, perhaps ancient, but Ludwig was relatively young compared to other European nations. Over the course of a century, the little child of _Confédération du Rhin _under France's care to the young man who was the German Empire. He grew too fast and too quickly, became a prominent power in Europe, and then in one _fucking _day everything just turned to shit and went to hell.

One day Germany challenged England for the seas. There was an heir to the Austrian-Hungarian throne one day, but not the next. The power balance was thrown off and the treaties failed; Belgium was screaming –dismissed as a 'scrap of paper.' Then ultimatums were delivered and ignored and sides were chosen; and English Empire declared war against the Huns.

Initially, Canada was wary, but her politicians and people –At least the English were. The French wanted nothing to do with it. –almost excited to fight along the British and for their nation. Now they know about the war's wretchedness and its _glory _and the volunteers may dwindle, but Canada will struggle to the vicious end, no matter.

Matthew turned to him, outwardly the same: bone-tired, ill, bandaged, and the cigarette in her hand, but gave Ludwig her full attention. Germany and Ludwig will struggle. She doesn't pity him, not at all. Canada was sympathetic to an extent, but not pitying because pity implied thinking of someone being less.

All nations struggled and persevered, now and then and beyond. Only time will tell when (not if, not where) this blasted war will end and just how much will they lose or gain -land, unity, independence, yourself.

She lips turned in a not-quite smile. Besides, pity also means behaving differently than normal. "I'll even the numbers."

Like hell she will.

Ludwig returned the not-quite smile with his own, his a little more real and with a bit of a chuckle at the casual promise and threat. He plucked the fag from her, ignoring her scowl and 'Arse' comment. It lacked any heat or bite, more like border-line teasing.

Whatever it was, they continued like that for the rest of the day, smoking and some talk in good company in the noise and spirit of Christmas and its carols.

**O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O**

Canada kept her word the next day after the truce. In amidst of the chaos, she watched Germany fall on the mud and blood and snow, violet eyes sharp and that savage part clawed its way out and burned at the sight of the still form. It took five bullets to the chest to bring him down.

They all kept struggling with nothing and everything.

**I find it odd there's barely anything about the Christmas truces in WW1. Most famous/well-known is in 1914, but it actually continued in later years, like 1915 and 1916. Much to the top's annoyance, some ordered soldiers to shoot down anyone, both enemy and comrade, that try to initiate contact around the time.**

**Must be, for the lack of a better word, unbelieving to be swapping chocolate and cigarettes on Christmas day and do the best to blast their faces off the next.**

**Yes, they talked and traded goods. And that haircut thing was real. Read it in a Canadian soldier's letter to his sweetheart awhile ago, but can't find it now. Shame.**

**This is setting about 1915/1916, I'm calling in artistic license if the Canadian and German armies had not a real truce in those years. **

**Treaty of London (1839) guaranteed Belgium's neutrality was signed by Prussia. Totally dismissed as a "scrap of paper" by German Chancellor Theobald von Bethmann Hollweg. **

**As for Ludwig's age, he is young compared to other European powers as an empire and mentally/experience-wise. Arguably he can be Holy Roman Empire and have terrible amnesia (or could be his son –is shot –XD How does that work, especially with Chibitalia fuzzy memory, will be explained later within one of the upcoming letters).**

**Hoped you enjoyed. Read, review, and yatta yatta.**

**~Witch of the Souls**


	3. C

**Hey, I'm back with the next installation! This tidbit was inspired by some RP with friends and online chat because let's face it: Nations can't **_**just**_** talk about trade agreements and politics. There just have to be some sort of gossip to grease the dry wheels and pass time. ;)**

**Rated: T**

**Warnings: Partial Gender-bending, OOC-ness, grammar mistakes, gossip, mentions of sex, Alfred's and Matthew's mouth, cross- dressing, etc**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers, nor am I affiliated with any of its products or companies. I just write for fun, no profit. **

**C**ommon

"It's kinda surprising that he can keep up."

"Is that so," England said, uninterested. He continued to flip through his notes, splitting his attention between papers and his American counterpart. Hearing no remark (sarcastic, indignant, offensive, or any combination of the three) was vaguely discomforting, he looked up. "Well, what is it?"

"Seriously?" Alfred rolled his eyes and jabbed a thumb outward. "That isn't weird?"

Following the finger across the room, he saw Canada, Germany, and Italy conversing in French. A little odd, but nothing to warrant Alfred's questioning, those three had a (unfortunate, in his view) link.

Then as if knowing just who was watching, Canada turned toward Alfred and Arthur, and slightly nodded, acknowledging them. It burned to get caught at such an easy task, he returned the nod and ignored Alfred's advice ("Just smile and wave."), and Matthew then easily adjusted back into the conversation.

"So much for British espionage," America snickered. "Or maybe you're getting too old?"

"You're one to speak. Just remember how easily hackable you are." The older man huffed and added derisively as he neatly shuffled his papers, "So much for American intelligence."

Before Alfred had a chance to retort, a voice carried over, "The meeting has yet to start and already sniping?" France walked over with an elegant eyebrow raised. "And you ask why others question the depth of your… _special_ relationship, _non?" _

Alfred pushed back, hands up, and lightheartedly said, "Whoa there! Since when there's anything going on between me and Old Man Artie?"

England scoffed, arms crossed, eyeing the Frenchman.

"I hear no denial from you, _Angleterre_~"

"To deny, no matter how lightly and vehemently, is admitting something is between us." Arthur scowled at Francis. "I'm not giving you _vultures_ the satisfaction of anything."

"Really," Francis drawled. "You must learn how to play well with others. Why deny a pleasurable pastime of ours?"

England wasn't even going to dignify that a proper response. Honestly, he thought, it was too early to deal with the Frog and the greased wheels of rumors. Turning back to America, he cleared his throat, "To answer your question before your stomach overrides your brain–"

"Hey!"

"No need to feel insulted, _Amérique_. Our _rosbif_ has always been rude."

" –speaking French because Italy questioned differences between certain dialects."

"Of course, he would. French _is _the language of sophistication." France gestured. "Even _Allemagne_, the brute, speaks well. I would expect nothing less when he was under my care as a child."

"Your humility knows no bounds," Arthur replied, dryly. Much to his annoyance, Francis thanked him 'graciously,' and then 'complimented' his appearance from the tweed suit to his rugged eyebrows; it's the epitome of English fashion, France said. Gritting his teeth, he smiled feral, and responded that Francis looks good with coffee and not to worry because the stain isn't noticeable. France's eye twitched.

"Anyway," Alfred said loudly, killing the verbal spar. "There are different types of French, and I'm talking about them speaking _Canadian_ French."

"_Québécois?_"

"I think so."

"It is," Arthur assured. He permitted French in private and causal affairs in Canada, but he absolutely refused to be insulted in his own home. Thus, he and his birch became well acquainted to the different dialects and the speakers' backsides, respectively.

The other two nations looked to the man that hated anything "frog"-related; Alfred in slight surprise as Francis looked smug and superior. "Wipe that look off your face, frog. At least _I_ can understand."

"And I cannot?" The Frenchman was insulted by the mere idea that he couldn't understand a dialect of his very own tongue. While it had changed over time, Francis had personally taught his darling colony from the New World. "Matthew may have an adorable country bumpkin accent, but few can understand anger in _any_ particular dialect unless well versed."

"Lud can." Alfred added as the other two mentally sighed at the American's habit of using nicknames.

"German _is_ the language of anger." Francis sniffed.

"True that. But actually yelling back at Mattie?"

The Frenchman shrugged. "Perhaps they're close and Germany picked it up."

"Close, huh?" His brows furrowed. "Do you think…?" America trailed off, insinuating.

"What?" Arthur's voice was gruff as he fixed his tea.

"You know… Germany and Canada?"

The three blondes stared at their main conversation topics, both were occupied by Italy's curiosity over differences of Quecbecian French and Parisian French. Alfred curious, Arthur in thought, and Francis was oddly calculating.

"It could work." Arthur stated.

After a pause, Alfred added, "Oh yeah…" He imitated the sound and gesture of a whip cracking. Noticing the two European's strange looks, he shrugged. "What? Lud's a no-brainer. And Mattie? Have you seen the amount of leather accessories she has?" Counting them off with the fingers of one hand, "Gloves, handbags, wallets, belts, boots –I'm pretty sure there's a pair of leather pants buried somewhere."

"And what does Canada's fixation on leather have to do with anything?" Arthur commented dryly.

"Leather is such a _kinky_ fetish, _Angleterre_. Ohonhonhon… For all we know, Matthew maybe a sexual deviant. A femme fetale?"

"Matthew, a sexual deviant? No. For all we know, it's just a _clothing_ fetish, nothing sexual. Besides," England huffed. "It's more likely she's into light hearted bondage."

Alfred pushed. "Okay, let's just agree that Mattie's pretty kinky. Come on! The biggest importer of lube next to the Swiss? Something's going down in the North~ And Germany's into weird shit. They're gonna have some pretty awesome kinky sex."

"Oh, yes. Work wonders on their pent up rage." Francis noted.

"No kidding…" Alfred muttered. Arthur silently agreed.

It was well-known that Ludwig Beilschmidt bottled most (keyword: most) of his anger and vented after a good amount of alcohol was in his system. Matthew Williams, on the other hand, had a terrible habit of suppressing all things negative until it exploded in fantastic long-houred rants (Alfred F. Jones does _not_ cry! Those pics were photoshopped, dammit!) or channeled properly in aggressive and violent activities (Hockey, anyone?).

"_So,_" Alfred stretched the word. "In the case of kinky, rage sex. Who tops?"

England paused, his large brows knitted and with a frown, "That's good question, actually."

"Especially from you," France drawled. He frowned disdainfully at America's one-finger silent comeback, and then answered. "Back to the topic at hand. Germany would top."

"Hold right there, frog." Arthur may ignored or forget about the girl, but he _never_ forget what Canada had done (good, bad, and all the aches). "Our soft-spoken girl can be quite hellion when worked up."

As if Alfred just remembered, "Wasn't Mattie one of your best shock troopers in the Great War?"

"Indeed she was." There was pride in England's voice.

"Ah, but you two had interrupted me. Germany would top, but it's Canada that cont–" Francis cut off, and then put on a charming smile.

"Mattie will what? Don't leave us hanging!"

"Oh, yes. Please continue. I'm wondering what you three think of my 'rage sex' with Germany."

Alfred snapped his mouth shut, and turned around. There standing over him was Matthew Williams. With a large grin, he held up his hand and waved. "Hey, Mattie! "

"Quite delicious, actually." Francis said at the same time.

"Hello to you, too, Al. Francis" She deadpanned, and then nodded to England. "Arthur."

"Matthew," the Briton greeted back, politely.

"Still see you're wearing guy clothes. Lookin' good~ So, how's Lud and Feli?"

"Smooth topic change, Al."

"Can't blame a guy for tryin'."

"Right…"

"Honestly, Alfred. There's something called 'tact,' you should really try it." Arthur sighed, and took a sip of tea. "So, how much did you hear?"

"Really? What happened to 'tact'?"

"Simple. Alfred destroyed it." He burred. "No point resurrecting the dead."

"Of course, he did." Canada sighed. It's almost sad that she was used to this. "I'm going to leave you three to your little chat." Before she walked away, she added, "By the way, France is right."

"Of course, I am~"

"Shut up, frog!"

"Huh?"

With a Cheshire grin, playful and wicked, she explained, "Germany tops, but I'm in control by the end of it. What can I say; I love a man that can share power." She imitated the sound and motion of a whip cracking, much like Alfred earlier. They noticed she was wearing black, leather gloves. "It's amazing what trust and toys can do~ Oh, the meeting's about to start. Bye!"

"Did not see that one coming…" Alfred gaped at his northern neighbor. "It's always the quiet ones."

"What the hell, man! You're the one that speculated!"

"Yeah… speculated. I didn't think Mattie was actually getting some German sasuage! … Pancakes, sausage, and maple syrup?"

"Jesus Christ, Alfred… Just shut up."

"Hey, it's a nice breakfast combo."

"Oh, stop it you two. Let's not forget that I won~"

"Stuff it, frog!"

**Odd viewpoint on Germany's and Canada's relationship, but had to be done. There are so many 'gasp-Canada-is-a-virgin-and-must-be-shielded-by-o verprotective-family-members-RAWR!' I thought it would be interesting if they were nosy about it and wanted some F.A.C.E. interactions. Two birds with one stone. Hope I got them down.**

**The important question here: is Matthew joking? XD**

**Read and Review! Your comments are important to me as feedback and fuzzies.**

**~Witch of the Souls **

**Omake:**

"Canada."

"Yeah?"

"Why was your family staring at us?"

"They were wondering how our sex life works, so I basically told them we're having "kinky, rage sex" as Al puts it."

"Jones is eloquent as always… They're taking it quite well."

"BREAKFAST PLATTER!"

"SHUT UP, ALFRED!"

"Ohononon~"

"Yep. So, how do we break it to yours?"


End file.
